


Treasure

by tolomer



Series: Treasure AU [1]
Category: Metro 2033 & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, death of the author baby, speculative fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-15 06:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13607172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tolomer/pseuds/tolomer
Summary: Artyom has just moved Pavel into VDNKh as a refugee of the Red Line. Things are supposed to be going smoothly, but rumor has it something stirs deep in the belly of the metro. Strange visions, mysterious maps and the messages of the long-departed guide Artyom and Pavel to discover the secrets of Polis, and even possibly of Metro 2.





	1. Welcome Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys thanks so much for reading! This entire new little uh, ongoing series I guess, is set in an AU after the final confrontation with Pavel on the surface, where Artyom has rescued/spared him, and brought him back to VDNKh, the two of them now independent refugees. I'm really hoping I'll get to write a bunch more of this, I like what I have planned, and you can expect ship stuff way down the line since I know that's why you're here :p
> 
> Enjoy!!! Mwah!
> 
> EDIT: Made a tiny little change so future sequences make sense lmao you probs won't even notice it if you reread so no worries

Artyom leaned back in the desk chair of his stepfather’s office, patiently awaiting his return with water for tea. The emergency lights in the room were off, and instead it was lit by a precious, delicate oil lamp on the desk. Staring listlessly, he was daydreaming towards the small library that lined the walls as the bindings and findings danced and glimmered and gleamed in the low, flickering light. There was kept a small official library in VDNKh, and most if not all of the books from traders were submitted to it for archival, but Uncle Sasha with his elevated status as an administrative assistant, was gifted the privilege of keeping a personal stock for his own amusement, and at a time when Artyom was young, to teach his son the ways of the world. But despite his love of learning and reading, Artyom could not have been further from reality and its literary bounty. His mind wandered, ever racing on and off about the young man he had brought with him to VDNKh, who was currently away in a side tunnel and undergoing intense vetting as a new potential resident. The immigration process to VDNKh was famously scrutinous, and in some far off stations where the people lived poorly and where the rats chewed at their heels, they would rumor amongst themselves that to move to the Exhibition-Rizhskaya line was second in difficulty only to moving to Hansa. Artyom was lucky however; as the son of an administrator he enjoyed some level of respect from the daily guard, and amongst the elite of the station. At least enough that he believed his recommendation alone would almost guarantee their new guest a residential spot on a platform, even if it was small. But even with these confidences Artyom found himself uneasy; his mind still raced, so much so he began to see colors and bright lights clouding his vision when he closed his eyes. At first the ringing in his ears was low and subtle. But it began to grow, slowly but surely, and its intensity became so much that Artyom forced his eyes open and rubbed his ears in frustration. The ringing spiked and he could feel his heart racing faster than ever before, pounding in his chest and in his temples, as sweat began to pour down his reddened face.

 

“Artyom!”

 

Artyom snapped out of his trance, the ringing gone, the colors and lights subsided, and now stared directly into the face of his stepfather, who was gently pouring the hot water from the kettle into two small tea cups. They were metal-coated ceramic, and scuffed, scavenged from the surface and probably from a bargain bin. Artyom blinked the sweat out of his eyes, cleared his throat and eagerly took a cup of the mushroom brew, sipping it fervently in attempts to relax.

 

“I said are you alright,  _ solnyshko _ ?” Uncle Sasha supposedly repeated.

 

“Yes I’m fine, sorry. Distracted by your bookshelf again, is all,” he lied. 

 

“I told you son, take whatever you like,” he smiled down at Artyom. “I taught you to read for a reason.” 

 

Artyom smiled weakly and sipped his tea, looking away from his stepfather and into the flame of the oil lamp. It danced haphazardly in its glass enclosure, and sent wisps of light dancing across Artyom’s hands and cup. Alexey, sensing the tension in the air, brought up discussion of the station’s soon-to-be newest citizen.

 

“You know it was dangerous, what you did, ah?” Uncle Sasha didn’t aim to berate his son for this; he had learned the hard way last year that he needed to be spoken to and treated as an adult. He sighed when Artyom remained silent, and sat in the wooden guest chair opposite him across the desk. “I love you son, I just… you know I worry. What this young man is, what he’s done or would have done—”

 

“Well he’s here now, and I gave you my word on the matter.” Artyom snapped, cutting his stepfather off and surprising even himself with his tone. If Artyom hadn’t known better, he would’ve compared the palpability of the tension in the small office to the worst of tunnel sicknesses. His heart began to race again as he sipped his tea with trembling hands. Uncle Sasha stirred his own tea in silence another moment.

 

“And I believe you, Artyoshka. But… defecting from Hunter’s “ _ Order” _ ? Granting a political prisoner amnesty, hiding him in an independent station? And for what? For what Artyom, that’s all I ask!” He could no longer keep his chilled demeanor. Artyom stared longingly into the mush of tea leaves and dried mushroom paste left at the bottom of his cup. It formed a lopsided triangle. Thumbing and fiddling with the still-warm, now-empty tea cup Artyom struggled to find words to sate his stepfather.

 

“The… the Order was never right for me, Uncle Sasha… I… I’m not suited for the military. I can’t be a part of a death squad or a firing troop, or whatever else have you!” He threw his arms up in frustration, slamming the cup back down on the desk. Uncle Sasha winced and drew back at the sound, and took a deep and thoughtful breath.

 

“And the young man from the—”

 

“He’s saved my life more than once. He’s… he’s a comrade.” Artyom dribbled out. He tried to sound firm, but his voice cracked and he coughed out those last words.

 

Uncle Sasha, who had always been so eager to keep Artyom away from the horrors of the world, had felt he’d finally found some peace in Artyom joining the Spartan Order. It was a dangerous military life, yes, but they had food, hot water, and enough trained men to keep the whole of D6 safe. He’d hoped his son would grow old and happy there, protected by the thick though crumbling depot walls. To find he had come home, though of course he welcomed him and cried with open arms upon seeing him, brought his anxiety back to square one. It was taking some time for him to come to terms with the fact that Artyom was now a young adult, and could take care of himself. Sukhoi had never had a wife or blood-related child of his own, and Artyom could tell it ate at him some, but all the same Artyom was his son and he couldn’t help but want to shield him from reality. Sukhoi began to tear up a bit, remembering some time or another when Artyom first began to walk, or when he first wrote a complete English sentence, or some other equally heartwarming moment between father and son. Sukhoi’s sensitive side had been influential to Artyom, who grew up in a dog-eat-dog world still being taught that he was allowed to feel, to cry, to want and to long for.

 

“Okay, Artyom. Okay.” Uncle Sasha finally spoke up. He reached over the desk and laid a gentle, firm grip on Artyom’s arm. “I love you son. We’ll talk more about this tomorrow.” He stood up, and moved to the other side of the desk, beside Artyom. “But for now, I have work to do.” He patted his son’s shoulder and stood him up, hugging him one last time before sending him off home. Artyom closed the door behind him, watching the gentle light of the oil lamp pitter out through the cracks as the light gave way to red, ever-familiar emergency lighting.

 

Artyom walked home slowly, traipsing along in attempts to stall. The last thing he’d wanted was to be alone with his thoughts, to be forced to recollect current and future events. He even took so much time as to wander over to the 50th meter of the southern tunnel. Here, a section of the rails had been torn up and the dirt tilled to make room for mushroom farming. Artyom stood at the edge of the platform there, leaning on the wooden border, and simply watched the day workers go about their business. He had taken many shifts in the mushroom pits, and while the southern farm wasn’t nearly as large as its northern cousin, Artyom enjoyed it all the same because it gave him his privacy and time to think. Down the tunnel to his right, south towards Alekseevskaya where he had first embarked those many months ago, a trolley was being fitted with dry goods, mostly tea and military rations, to be delivered through Alekseevskaya and onwards to Rizhskaya, as part of the monthly quota of supplies afforded to them in their recent partnership. One of the station captains was calling out orders to his men, indistinct from where Artyom stood. A visiting family sat under the arches of the platform near the trolley, a mother and two young children, while the father settled passport matters with the station master. Further up the tunnel, back towards the whole of the station and behind Artyom, merchants were beginning to pack up. Cat calls between competitors could be heard whistling across the way, as ammo jingled in the pockets of the salesmen. The whole of VDNKh, though maybe not as busy as Prospekt Mira or Polis, had an air of life and exuberance about it that Artyom felt drawn to. He’d missed the quiet, mercantile life he’d enjoyed here as a child, his heart and stomach now both filled with quite enough adventure for one lifetime. He let himself bathe in the sounds of the closing, settling underground city, when the clamor of metal hitting metal erupted from the tunnel, startling him immensely. He turned to see it was just some newbie dropping his gun on the rails, but Artyom’s heart still raced. Ever since his capture by the worm cult, he had grown hypervigilant, unable to rest without looking over his shoulder. He’d been through all sorts of hell on his journey to Polis, but something about his treatment at the hands of those fanatics was… traumatizing. “Night,” as designated by the station clocks was just around the bend, and Artyom, though not very eager to return home, had just come off a long guard shift when he had visited his stepfather, and admitted to himself that he needed to head home and get some sleep. Walking back under the arches of the southern entrance, through a transfer tunnel and down a quick flight of stairs Artyom, coming closer to home now, began to think on the next day’s events. He didn’t have another guard shift for 48 hours, and to his luck he had the day off tomorrow, with a shift in the library not until evening. He’d have the day to himself, and of course he would have to meet up with his refugee friend, and help him settle in. As Artyom pulled aside the entrance to his little 2-person tent (that he had all to himself) he felt a pit growing in his stomach as he thought about it. He quickly undressed, and lay in bed on his back, staring at the dark, lightless ceiling. His stomach swirled and he couldn’t find a single comfortable position to lie in, so he lay there on his back, eyes wide open, and pondered tomorrow. As an hour went by, exhaustion finally pulled him into sleep.

 

Artyom opened his eyes to find that he was, of course, alone in his tent. Dim red light peered in through the tarpaulin entrance and Artyom, in boxers and a t-shirt, stood to check the situation outside. He pulled aside the entrance and stuck his head out, to find he couldn’t breathe. He began to panic and scratch at his throat, effortlessly and desperately trying to take in a single breath. He fell forward outside the tent but as he closed his eyes and braced for impact he felt nothing. Then he felt rushing air. Artyom opened his eyes, still silently screaming and gasping for breath; he was falling. The facade of his tent and of the station wall was traveling away from him at mach speeds, growing ever distant as he fell through the absolute nothingness around him. He fell and fell at greater speed, and had to shut his eyes against the wind. Then, Artyom jolted upright, gasping for breath and looked around him. He thought it must have been a dream, a nightmare. But all around him was unfamiliar tunnel. He lay naked on the rails, writhing in the dirt. A dying flashlight illuminated one wall of this strange tunnel; he grabbed at it and looked frantically all around him to find it was no tunnel, but an enclosed room built of the same stone, with the same piping, all around him, as though an empty subway tunnel has swallowed itself whole, with him inside. There was no way out. Sweating profusely and breathing heavily, a deep chill overcame Artyom’s nude body. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth, and to his surprise could suddenly see the vapor on his breath. He aimed the flashlight all around the dilapidated room, desperate for answers and escape. He almost missed it, but then, spotting the light directly on it, he caught the faint lettering graffitied on the upper curvature of the wall:

 

“ _ ЯЛТ _ ”

 

Artyom struggled and strained the read it, but it was as if he was staring directly into the sun. Suddenly the flashlight died, and he was alone in the dark.

 

Artyom’s eyes snapped open and again he sat straight up in bed; this time he leaned over to his garbage can and vomited. He held his forehead in one hand, the other on his nauseous stomach, and breathed heavily in the silence of his tent. He fell back and let his head hit the pillow.

 

“Shit. Come on…” The nightmares had been constant ever since the incident at the tv tower, but long had it been since one felt so… realistic. So tangible. He pondered the whole sequence in silence, mulling over again and again what the whole thing could mean, if it meant anything. He frowned when he remembered the letters he saw; ‘ _ Yalt _ ,’  _ what’s that supposed to mean any way? _ He thought. From his small night stand Artyom took his watch and squinted at its face in the darkness;  _ 0400 hours _ . It was early still, but there was no way he was falling back to sleep now. He got up and dressed himself, and paused for a moment before opening the tent, the red emergency light peeking through all too recently familiar. He pushed through the tent and was on the platform completely alone. He could hear soldiers laughing in the distance, and since he lived somewhat near the kitchens the smell of morning oats and tea enveloped the whole of the neighborhood. He figured that would be a good first stop before he had business to settle with the immigration officials. Rounding a few corners, squeezing through a gate or two, Artyom sat himself in front of the large open window to the communal kitchens, where one could easily watch the chefs prepare. It was always pork, or mushrooms or chicken, and never much more, but the way the head chef ran her kitchen meant VDNKh had one of the greatest unofficial “restaurants” in the whole system. Of course the kitchens were communal, so any one citizen could register themselves an allotted time to cook there, but otherwise it was kept tidy and in order by one woman. No one else was seated at the window this early in the morning, so early the emergency lights were still dimmed for night-time hours. But all the same Vera, the head chef, appeared from behind a griddle and beamed a wide smile at Artyom as she ran over to him.

 

“Artyomich!” She grabbed Artyom’s hand from across the window and shook it almost violently, in a deadlock grip. Vera was a hard woman; she had been in the military before the war, and had the arms of a boxer. Artyom could only laugh in response as she tortured his arm. “I had heard you were home for the first time in over a year! Where have you been young man?” She playfully rapt him on the knuckles with her ladle. “One of the only gentlemen in this whole damned station who compliments me on my cooking, and you go missing! Ptooey.”

 

Artyom laughed again and took Vera’s hand in his other.

 

“I’m sorry Vera, I know I never wrote to anyone back home. But I’m here to stay now, and would  _ love _ a piece of your pork pie… if you can forgive me?” He stuck out his bottom lip in a pout, and Vera laughed loud enough to wake the neighbors. She slapped him on the shoulder and told him for him, anything. Even quicker than she had appeared, Vera disappeared behind an array of stoves and could be heard fumbling about in the back. In the meantime she had poured Artyom a glass of tea, which he stirred mindlessly as he waited for it to cool. As he stirred and let his mind wander, he was suddenly brought back to reality by the sounds of an argument coming from deeper in the kitchen. It sounded like Vera, and while Artyom couldn’t make out the other voice clearly, he assumed it was Vera’s wife Alyona, the only other chef who worked so early in the mornings. The two women—  Artyom was correct in his guess— came around the corner and were quietly arguing over something Artyom still could not make out.

 

“Artyom!” Alyona called out to him suddenly.

 

“Oh Alyoshka, please don’t bother our guest with—”

 

“Oh he won’t mind! Will you Artyom?”

 

“Mind what?” He stopped stirring his tea.

 

Alyona was holding a folded, musty piece of paper that she revealed to be a metro map, much similar to the one Artyom always carried with him. However Alyona’s map had almost all of its white space taken up with cyrillic scribbles that Artyom could barely make out. And in the center of the map, Polis was circled in spread black ink, as though the pen had broken from how hard the author of the mark was pushing upon it.

“What do you think of this?” She shoved it at him across the counter. Artyom blinked and took the map in his hands, studying the writing and the circle in the center.

 

“Well, what is it? Other than a map?”

 

Alyona rolled her eyes and sighed, “You don’t know either do you!” At this point Artyom was very confused. He was about to ask for more information when Alyona, seemingly reading his mind, continued.

 

“It’s…! It’s, well…! I don’t know. But a trader gave it to me, he tells me— ‘Now young lady,—’” she put on her best gruff voice, “ ‘Now young lady you be careful with this info’ he tells me. ‘If you follow it, it’s not my fault. Strange things happening in the center these days, weird, terrible things,’ and that’s all he told me! What’s with that?” Alyona scratched her head and put the map back on the counter. Artyom looked at the circle again, directly around Polis.  _ Terrible, strange things? In Polis…? _ He wondered to himself.

 

“See Alyoshka I tell you, he knows nothing more than I do, or that lousy trader does either! It’s nothing.”

 

“I suppose,” Alyona surrendered.

 

“Can I keep this?” Artyom then asked her.

 

“The map? Sure, it’s yours. I can barely read the notes all over it anyway. Useless.”

 

Artyom sipped his tea, which has now grown lukewarm and, Alyona returning to the kitchen, Vera had brought him a piece of her pork pie. He scarfed it down eagerly and finished the meal off with a second glass of tea. He tipped Vera handsomely an extra 3 bullets and thanked her, pocketing the folded map before heading on his way to visit his stepfather at work. Another distraction he thought, before business.

 

As Artyom came up to the door of Sukhoi’s office, he could hear arguing between Uncle Sasha, and a man whose voice Artyom recognized as one of the visiting guard captains from Rizhskaya. Carefully and nervously, he put his ear right to the metal door, and listened in as best he could.

 

“I tell you, that’s all we know so far.”

  
“Well why even bring it up with me? I organize the trade routes, you want the station head!”

 

“Don’t try to tell me where I need to go. I’m speaking to you because we have so little information. We don’t want to cause a panic by demanding an audience with the station master without proof.”

 

_ Proof of what? What’s going on?  _ Artyom strained to hear the rest of the exchange.

 

“Well I’ll keep my eye out, that’s all I can tell you.”

 

“That’s all I ask.”

 

Artyom could hear them both get up from their seats, and quickly shuffled away from the door. It opened and out stepped the Rizhskaya captain. He nodded silently at Artyom, and then walked off. Artyom entered his stepfather’s office, knocking on the open door. Sukhoi was absorbed in some paperwork now, and looked up from his reading glasses to focus on Artyom.

 

“Ah Artyom! It’s so early, are you not well?” He cooed.

 

“No Sukhoi, I’m fine. I woke up early and got breakfast with Vera. I… thought I’d come to check in on you.”

 

“Well you’re very kind to do so, sit, sit.” He motioned at the chair opposite him. Artyom sat down as he was told, and Sukhoi put down his pen to listen to what he assumed his son would have to say. When they stayed silent for a few seconds, Artyom finally managed to squeeze out a shred of his curiosity.

 

“Is there… a problem? With the station? The captain didn’t seem very happy when he left.” Sukhoi leaned back in his chair and sighed at the ceiling in defeat.

 

“Ah, Artyoshka. No there is no problem. Only rumor, conjecture— it’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Some nonsense about Polis.”

 

Artyom perked up at the name.

 

“At Polis…?”

 

“Yes yes, something about the infrastructure, or, I don’t know, a lot of paranoid talk. It’s nothing to concern yourself with.” Sukhoi’s reassurances couldn’t quell Artyom’s curiosity, but he agreed to let it go for now, and quickly ended his discussion with this stepfather, excusing himself and shutting the door behind him. His clock read 0800 hours, and it was time to visit the immigration center. It was nothing fancy at their little station, simply a series of 3 offices that had been converted into their makeshift command center of a border control. But the entrance requirements were stringent, and filing cabinets stocked to the brim lined every wall of each office. Artyom arrived rather quickly, Sukhoi being nearby the rest of the administrative offices. The door was open and Artyom knocked at its frame to get the attention of the young man sitting at the computer, completely absorbed in whatever he was doing. VDNKh’s administrators also had some of last working computers in the metro; of course there was no longer an internet to browse, but they served their purpose well as local servers and storage. The young man at the desk looked away from his screen and up at Artyom, frowning when he didn’t recognize him.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

“I’m here to facilitate the release of a new citizen— I’ll be the one showing him around, where he lives, et cetera.”

 

“Ah, the new guy’s friend. Alright come in, sit down, he’s in the back. Lucky you he got in, passed the vetting test with flying colors actually, smart guy,” and the hobbling young man suddenly disappeared into the back office, presumably to bring Artyom his charge. 

 

Artyom sat in the office waiting chair and glanced at his watch every few seconds; it had been 3 minutes since the secretary had disappeared, but it felt like 3 hours. His hands rubbed together nervously, tangling and untangling his sweaty fingers. Finally, drawing Artyom’s complete attention, the door knob began to rattle. His heart stopped, and he couldn’t breathe. The door swung open, and out came the secretary. Following him was Artyom’s new guest, redressed in civilian attire and outfitted with a set of housing documents and a VDNKh passport. He caught sight of Artyom waiting in the chair, and lit up immediately.

 

“Artyomich!” he called out.

 

“Hey there, glad you’re okay… Pavel.”


	2. Tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, shorter than chapter 1, but chapter 3 should be longer than chapter 2, so it all works out in the end I promise. Also, if anything confuses here, I made one small change to chapter 1 about Artyom's nightmares, so feel free to peruse that section to fill in any gaps!

“As I suspected it looks like you’ll be staying with me,” Artyom said aloud, scrutinizing Pavel’s documentation as he walked him home.

 

“Yes, they told me there were no other available zones, and you have a 2-person tent, so I guess—”

 

“Yeah. It makes sense.” Artyom coldly cut him off.

 

He had spared Pavel’s life and made the decision to take him to VDNKh only a week and a half ago. After they had returned to hide in the tunnels, they holed up in a maintenance room, where Artyom nursed Pavel’s wounds, and where the two discussed what to do moving forward. Artyom hadn’t the heart to kill him, and had Pavel gone back to the Red Line he’d surely have been hanged. Artyom was angry the whole time they’d spoken, the whole time he had dressed and redressed Pavel’s wounds. All the betrayal, the indiscernible mix of truths and lies, but… he couldn’t let him die alone on the surface. He couldn’t kill someone he’d considered a friend. And now Pavel was with him at home, and acted as if everything were right with the world and all were good and proper, as if all was forgiven and nothing was regretted. But Artyom could hardly speak to him.  _ Keep him safe _ was his only driving instinct, from surface to tunnel to station, but it wasn’t enough to really satisfy his own questions.  _ Why? Why? Why why why why? _ His heart pounded in his ears until Pavel broke the silence:

 

“Zone 33, just under the second to last arch of the northbound platform… this is it then?” It was.

 

Artyom pulled aside the entrance and motioned for Pavel to enter. The two of them fit quite comfortably in the tent and could stand at full height, and lie down without touching. Artyom tried his best to act calm and complacent about the arrangement, but internally he was a bundle of pulsing nerves.

 

“As you can see I have a second twin bed for you there. I sleep on this one.” He sat on the edge of his unmade bed.

 

“That’s perfect, really, thank you chuvak, I—”

 

“It’s only 0830, so we should get a head start on touring you around the station so you know where to go for work each day. We’re just here to drop off your things.” He cut him off again. Pavel pouted almost unnoticeably and followed Artyom out of the tent. He’d hoped to settle in, but Artyom was the boss for now.   
  


The pair, tourist and guide, cruised around the lower levels of VDNKh first, introducing Pavel to the kitchens where he could cook for himself, the northern  _ and _ southern mushroom farms, and finally they came to the edge of the northern guard post, where Artyom was most often posted for guard duty. They came to the first cordone at the 300th meter and met two young men Artyom didn’t recognize, both with firm faces and trimmed mustaches, and an older gentleman Artyom knew as Pyotr Andreyevich, whom he had not seen in many months. He immediately recognized Artyom even in the low-light and stood up enthusiastically, throwing his arms open.

 

“Artyom! And how long it’s been since I’ve been on a guard shift with you! Come come, sit, will you?”

 

“I’m sorry Pyotr Andreyevich— it’s great to see you, but we’re not on duty until tomorrow evening. I’m—” Artyom struggled with his words for a moment, “This is Pavel Igorevich. He’s new to the station and he’ll be staying with me for the time being. I’m showing him around, bringing him to his stations.”

 

“Ah fine work, fine fine that’s all good, okay. And I am Pyotr Andreyevich,” he now said directly to Pavel, sticking a hand out.

 

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

 

“Agh, no sir, no sir! Please, Pyotr is fine. Now come, don’t you boys have time to sit and share even one story? What, have you grown selfish over the months? Hmph!” Pyotr Andreyevich crossed his arms like an indignant child.

 

“Alright, alright, we can catch up,” Artyom smiled and sat beside the fire. Pavel sat on the rails to Artyom’s back, out of sight of the other 2 guards.

 

“So as I was saying— you interrupted me Artyomich— as I was saying, this caravan's leaving in an hour, and the whole team is like, special ops guys. I mean big guns, reserve stuff. I heard one of them is preparing to bring along a flamethrower once they hit Rizhskaya. So anyway that’s all I know, but come on? What for? And they won’t tell us anything! They’re even sending some administrators, not soldier types but the pencil pushing boys upstairs. Freaky!”

 

As he always did beside the fire, Pyotr Andreyevich had readily captured Artyom’s attention.

 

“What’s this? What caravan? And to where?” He had to try hard not to sound like an over-eager puppy.

 

“To Polis, or Arbatskaya nearby, I don’t really know for sure. Like I said they tell us nothing, ptooey.”

 

“Polis…?” Artyom repeated under his breath. It was the third time today he’d heard about something happening in Polis, though no one seemed to know exactly what. He pushed for more information.

 

“And administrators are going? Who? Do you know who?”

 

“Well by my best guess I’d say your uncle Sasha, for sure. Something about infrastructure and trade routes, and that’s all his business no?”

 

Artyom’s eyes went wide as he absorbed what Pyotr Andreyevich just told him.

 

“N-no, my… he would tell me! I’m sure he’s sitting in his office right now. Yes, I’m sure of it. Pyotr Andreyevich,” he began to change the subject, “thank you so much for your time, but I think we need to go.”

 

He stood, and Pavel followed. Pyotr Andreyevich began to say goodbye, and go off on another tangent, but Artyom was walking so briskly he couldn’t hear him. He pulled Pavel back onto the platform, and dragged him behind himself all the way to his stepfather’s office.

 

“Stay here,” he told, or commanded, Pavel.

 

Artyom slowly opened the door and knocked at its frame, and came in to see his stepfather packing a rucksack.

 

“Ah, son! There you are. I— I was just coming to find you.”

 

“What’s going on, Sukhoi?”

 

“Well, it seems I’ve been whisked away— called upon. I’m heading to Polis with a group of men to settle some business. It’s nothing to worry about darling, really.” He continued to stuff supplies into his sack; papers, bottled water, cartridges.

 

“All the way to Polis? Why so suddenly, what’s really going on?”

 

“I told you son, I give you my word! As far as I know, routine meetings on the state of our alliance with the Order… presumably. It won’t take more than a week, I’ll be back in no time.”

 

Artyom’s stomach gurgled and he didn’t feel put at ease by his stepfather’s words at all. He hugged him suddenly, and just like when he’d hugged him before leaving for Polis himself that year ago, he began to tear up.

 

“Artyom…” Sukhoi wrapped his arms around his son, and reassured him again that everything would be fine, and sent him home.

 

A week went by agonizingly slowly, and each day felt longer to Artyom than the last. Unwilling to negotiate his feelings about his new roommate he found ways to occupy himself; lounging in the library and getting lost in a book, spending an extra shift at the tea packing center, staying up at his guard posts hours later than he should have, and sacrificing sleep for all of it. And of course they lived together, so he could not escape interaction with him, but he did his best to do just that, and would instead catch glimpses of him heading to the showers, or cleaning up after a meal in the kitchens, or even occasionally he would see him chatting with an unfamiliar girl, and Artyom’s stomach aches would flair up in an unbearable heat that he couldn’t quite discern the cause of. But decidedly it wasn’t any of his business, and he kept himself busy and disinterested, to the best of his ability. Things seemed to be going normally, if not uncomfortably.

 

It was upon waking on the 9th day after his stepfather’s departure, that Artyom hurried both to the southern tunnel, and to Sukhoi’s office, to find each still unoccupied. He began to feel an anxious worry in his gut, knowing a safe trip to Polis in a guarded caravan should’ve taken 3, maybe 4 days. Something had to be wrong, he thought, and so hurriedly Artyom climbed the heavy iron stairs to the station master’s office, and, completely improperly and without manner, barged into the enclosure where the master was discussing this and that with someone else below him in status.

 

“My God! And who are you? Who do you think you are? Can I help you?” He chided Artyom viciously. Artyom had only ever seen the station master up close once before, years ago when he was 16 or so. He was a heavy set gentleman with tiny spectacles that hardly fit around the sides of his head; he wore a formal military uniform that was too tight, and had no pins to denote his former glory.

 

“I’m sorry sir, truly I am, but you see my stepfather, Alexey—”

 

“My trades manager? What about him, your father you say?”

 

“Well he left with your caravan to Polis you see, over a week ago, and—”

 

“Now hold on one moment,” he cut Artyom off, who was now sweating and bleating his story out. “Caravan? Polis? I’ve authorized no such thing. Who do you think you’re talking to? One more outburst like this and I ought to have you exiled! Sasha’s boy… hmph!” And with that he had the man he’d been discussing with throw Artyom out.

 

Artyom stood outside the office in complete shock.  _ No caravan? What? Then who… then where…?! _ He needed answers, and no one was there to give him any. He plodded home, lost in a haze of anxious, depressing thoughts and, finding Pavel already asleep in his bunk, immediately passed out.

 

Again the nightmares came, and now just as realistic as his most recent terror. He ran through darkness, a deserted station with no lights, and his hands caressed the walls to help him find his way. He called out for anyone to hear him, but the tunnels only teased him with a dull echo in response. He called out again, desperate for an answer, for some light, for anything to help quell the fear he felt in the dark of the lifeless station. Then, he felt a terrifyingly, hauntingly familiar sensation at the back of his head. His ears began to feel as though they were stuffed with cotton, and a piercing ring was forming under the surface. He knew this feeling, and frantically ran back and forth in the dark, trying to determine where the broken pipe may be. But no matter where he ran, how fast or how far, the sound only grew slowly louder, and more painful by the minute. There was no origin point to be found, and he fell to his knees, screaming, though he couldn’t hear himself.

 

He woke up in a cold sweat, on his back again, and threw up even harder this time. He hadn’t felt that exact sensation, that whispering and howling of the tunnels, since his first excursion away from home. He hadn’t felt it in over a year. Something was horribly wrong, he felt. The nightmares, Polis of all places, and to top it all off that mysterious  _ map _ he’d gotten from Alyona. Sitting upright, he leaned down and fished the map out of his jacket pocket. It was the size of a postcard, and he still couldn’t read any of the scribbles on its edges, but he saw now that Polis was not the only marked station. It took him back then, in his mind, immediately to the Guide he had given Khan when they’d first spoken. It was terribly similar, with marks and symbols strewn across passageways to denote cave-ins and bandit camps. It wasn’t nearly as heavy card stock, and if it had a mystical voice as well Artyom couldn’t hear it. But he studied the map, the dark circle around Polis, and then he saw it again, in the bottom left corner of the scribbling, barely legible under other writing:

 

_ “ЯЛТ” _

 

All this fussing got Pavel’s attention, who’d woken up when he heard vomiting but tried to keep to his own business before the noise became obnoxious.

 

“Artyom?” He peered through the dark.

 

“I’m fine, I... must’ve eaten some undercooked pork. Go back to bed.”

 

Artyom was up at the foot of his bed now, packing a bag with a traveler’s usual supplies: med kits, bread, batteries and some wire, and a short bit of rope. Pavel could easily hear him making all this noise, especially when he lifted his bulky Kalashnikov and tried to stuff it into the sack.

 

“What are you  _ doing _ ?” He questioned again.

 

Artyom couldn’t come up with any good lie fast enough.

 

“My stepfather— he’s gone. No one knows anything. The station master kicked me out in under a minute I—” he began to choke up. “Something’s wrong. I’m going to Polis.”

 

Pavel immediately swung his feet off his bed and stood at full height.

 

“All the— the way to Polis?! Then I’m going with you!”

 

Artyom stared at him in bewilderment.

 

“Absolutely not!”

 

“And why not?! You think you’re gonna make it to Polis alone, eh? With no one to watch your back?”

 

“I did it once before,” Artyom spat.

 

“And what will I say to everyone here when you disappear and never come back, huh?”

 

“You’re crafty. Figure it out.” He turned to leave the tent when a firm grip came down on his shoulder.

 

“I’m coming with you.” There was a stern finality to Pavel’s words, and Artyom knew from there he would never convince him otherwise. “And besides,” Pavel continued, “You said I had to earn your trust again… let me earn it.” At first those words sat heavy in Artyom’s stomach, but he quickly put it out of mind. He sighed and moved Pavel’s hand from his shoulder.

 

“Alright.” He sat down on the bed and turned on his bedside oil lamp, unfolding the map and placing it down for Pavel to see.

 

“We need to go here,” he began tracing a finger down the lines from VDNKh, all the way to Polis. “My stepfather told me the caravan was headed for Polis.”

 

Pavel sat on his own bed and looked uneasy.

 

“And in Polis, we… won’t run into trouble? Your old superiors were stationed there, and if I’m recognized by authorities—”

 

“You won’t be. And I resigned face to face with Mi— … with my old commanding officer. He may not like me, but I didn’t do anything illegal, or get kicked out. We’ll be fine.” Artyom had to tell himself they’d be fine. He retraced the planned route over and over with his eyes; from VDNKh just like the first time, they would go to Prospekt Mira. Then south to Sukharevskaya… but that posed the same problem it did for him the last time he attempted to get to Polis. But no matter how he looked at the map, even with its updated warnings, Kitai Gorod seemed like the only way to avoid going around the ring. Artyom laid out this plan to Pavel, who like any smart young man in the metro had heard the same rumors (that Artyom knew to be truths) about the cursed tunnel that ran south of Sukharevskaya and into Kitai Gorod, the tunnel that ate lone travelers and occasionally didn’t spare caravans either. He frowned and shook his head. 

 

“I see no other way, I guess. There’s no way I can get us through the Red Line now, so going completely around it is the only option.”

 

“We’d still have to go through Kuznetskiy Most.”

 

They sat in silent contemplation for a minute, fully aware of the dangers of the journey they were about the undertake. Artyom made the decision:

 

“We’ll leave tonight.”


	3. Forgetting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3! It's not /quite/ as long as I would've liked, but I think the quality of writing is far improved over chapters 1 and 2, so never fear! I guess.

The two of them dressed for the road in silence, each internally contemplating the journey ahead. Artyom strapped his bulky Kalash to his back, and felt the pangs of nostalgia for when he’d first left his home station, over a year ago. He was prepared about as well as he had been then, so not very much at all. He wore his faded-green military jacket over a bullet-proof vest, and his rucksack only contained enough water for 2 days, 200 military-grade bullets, some extra batteries for his flashlight, and the cardstock map. Artyom secured the gun with a click of the strap ends and looked over at Pavel to see how ready he was. To Artyom’s surprise he actually seemed overdressed for the occasion; he wore his usual black down jacket, and military pants tucked into heavy boots that had obviously gotten him through some tough times. His tank helmet was in his bag, but his head was still shaved. The old Soviet tank helmets were dead giveaways of the Reds, and while they were popular enough with bandits that you could say ‘Oh, I got it from a trader,’ pretty reliably, they’d agreed it wasn’t worth drawing anyone’s attention unnecessarily. Strapped to Pavel’s back was a VDNKh-issued Kalashnikov, just like Artyom’s, and to his front he kept a trench knife. Artyom could see even without digging through it himself that Pavel’s rucksack was better stocked than his own; it was completely stuffed, and almost pouring out of the top Artyom made out a box of tea, a flare gun, rope, and a tinderbox. He felt slightly ashamed that he hadn’t any better supplies, and racked his brain about when Pavel may have had the time to collect all this. He remembered then that truly, he hadn’t seen much of Pavel at all over the last 9 days. He knew nothing of his habits, his schedule, or even when he usually went to sleep. It was no surprise he had no clue that he had so responsibly stocked up in case of emergency. Pavel looked up from tightening the cinch on his bag; his icy blue eyes highlighted by the wavering light of the oil lamp sent a shiver down Artyom’s spine.

 

“Are we ready then?”

 

Artyom nodded.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

They only spent a minute or two at the southern exit that lead from VDNKh to Alekseevskaya. No carts were being sent in either direction this evening, but two fit young men with legal passports didn’t concern the guard much, who simply told them with a strictness in his voice to watch out for each other as they walked.

 

The lackadaisy guards at Alekseevskaya gave them no trouble either and, halfway to Rizhskaya already, Artyom’s eyes buzzed around the tunnel as though it were his first time under its roof. He could now study the cracks between individual slabs of stone that lined the walls and ceiling, and see clearly the pipes and wires that ran between the stations. In the year he had been gone, the tunnels from VDNKh to Alekseevskaya, and from Alekseevskaya to Rizhskaya, had become permanently lit. Instead of the sense of dread and danger he’d felt when it was still a dark and dilapidated space, he felt bubbly and full of wonder, and even began to have a bit of a hop in his step. Pavel looked over at him, frowning in obvious confusion and tapped Artyom on the shoulder. He turned around and flashed Pavel a wry smile, but continuing to move forward.

 

“What is it, Athos?” Artyom cooed, gaily.

 

Now Pavel was very confused. Artyom had avoided him for over a week, and refused to speak to him most hours of the day, so he couldn’t imagine why he was suddenly on nickname terms again. But his partner’s silly, ignorant joy felt almost infectious. Pavel laughed to himself, and laughed again, until he was actively laughing out loud so that it echoed towards either end of the tunnel. He started to bounce as he stepped as well, and the two of them kept up pace with one another, humming and laughing. After only a few more feet, Pavel’s chest and stomach were screaming for rest, but he couldn’t stop laughing. He slowed himself, and sat down on the rails of the illuminated tunnel and began to laugh into his palms; it sounded to Artyom like a mix of laughter and desperate sobbing, and the upsetting sound very quickly snapped him out of his own trance. He turned around to see Pavel on the rails, roaring with laughter, tears welling up under his hands.

 

“Pavel!” He shouted over the laughter. 

 

His head was pounding now and he felt out of breath himself. But, gathering all his strength, Artyom lifted Pavel up and supported him on his shoulder, and began to walk them further down the tunnel towards Rizhskaya. Where once the gentle yellow bulbs above their heads provided a sense of safety, they now glowed so bright that Artyom couldn’t see anything ahead of him, and he was charging ahead with Pavel on his arm completely blind. His knees burned in fatigued agony, and he clamped his jaw tight to power through. Soon, as Artyom nearly felt he might collapse, Pavel stopped laughing, and Artyom slowly came to a stop. He opened his eyes cautiously, expecting the blinding light to still be all around him. Instead he was alone with Pavel, under the glow of soft fluorescent lights. He collapsed on the ground immediately to catch his breath, and, smacking Pavel lightly on the chest, asked:

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Pavel had a small coughing fit, but caught his breath and looked up and over at his savior.

 

“Yeah I’m— I’m fine. Holy shit, yo-moyo what was  _ that _ ?!”

 

The last time Artyom had come through this tunnel, a broken pipe had given him a debilitating migraine, and caused the men he was with to nearly lose their sanity. It had eaten at their minds like maggots, the voices of the dead howling through the pipes and whisking away all who dare confront them! Artyom could vividly remember the feeling it gave him; the frost-bitten chill at the back of his neck, and the pounding, ringing in his ears. He’d never forget that sensation. This time was so different… perhaps the security in the newly lit tunnels was a false sense, that could trick you into falling deep into the tunnel’s lullaby, never to be found again. Perhaps the tunnels truly were alive, and adapted to whatever humans could throw at them; lights, guard posts, all meaningless to mother metro. He gulped and reached a hand out to Pavel, helping him up.

 

The 150th meter cordone at Rizhskaya was just around the bend and, thanks to their passports, the guards here gave them no trouble as well. Artyom let out a relieved breath once they passed the gate and were on the main platform. So far, with one little incident, their trip was going remarkably well. The VDNKh-Rizhskaya Alliance was paying off, and travel through their radial was easier than ever. They had left at the cusp of evening, and with their delay it had taken them about an hour and a half to get to Riga, but there were no working clocks at Rizhskaya’s platform for Artyom to check against, so he had to trust the time on his watch was correct. Night time was quiet at VDNKh, but here it was almost lifeless. Only an hour after business hours and the platform was empty, except for one or two homeless stragglers around the communal fire pit. Even with the prosperity brought by their new alliance, Rizhskaya still reminded Artyom of the stories he’d heard as a child about the dark, uninhabited stations far down the line from his own. But even with the dark comparisons, the hour was perfect. If Artyom had learned anything from his shifts as a border guard, it was that once the proverbial sun had set, and the lights became dim on the platform, no one cared who came and went, by what exit, or to where. The men would grow weary, and be occupied by each other’s fireside tall tales, and often you could be lucky enough to get by with only a single bullet or two as ‘payment.’ And if you were so lucky, then they would turn the other way, go back to the fire, and continue on as if you had never asked to leave the station to begin with. As a traveler you weren’t their problem, and that simple truth was Artyom’s best bet to get the two of them to Prospekt Mira. The first time, Bourbon had accompanied him, and ‘his people’ had let them through. This time it was all up to his own wits and guts. Pavel had wanted to stay a moment at the fire, or to buy something to eat, but Artyom was insistent on his plan and dragged him away towards the southern exit. From the platform, down the hall, in the distance Artyom could see the glow of a campfire coming from the tracks. As they got close, he paced his steps and strutted confidently down the metal stairs, off the platform, and stood right behind a wall of a man, who stood many inches taller than he did, and almost a foot wider. Gathering his courage he let out a gruff ‘ _ Ahem! _ ’ and the man turned around.

 

“Huh?”

 

“We’d like passage to Prospekt Mira through this tunnel. We’re travelers, so—”

 

“What’s your business?” he gurgled out, obviously having had too much to drink on duty. Artyom took a deep breath in and reasserted himself.

 

“We’re travelers. Traders. We’d like to go to Prospekt Mira to—”

 

“S’night. Why’rnt you in bed, boy?” Artyom’s ears glowed bright red and he could feel the steam building up.

 

“Will you let us through or not?!” He finally boomed. The guard squinted with all his focus on Artyom, and scratched under his untrimmed goatee. The other men at the guard post were on alert now, and leaned around the fire to get a better look at the situation, hands on their holsters. The large man threw up a hand to his comrades, telling them to settle down.

 

“I s’pose. If you make it worth my while.”

 

Artyom groaned, and fished through his bag for 2 shiny brass bullets. The guard eagerly pocketed them but then stuck his greasy, meaty hand out again.

 

“And for your friend,” he nodded towards Pavel, who was still on the stairs. Pavel trotted down, rummaged through his pockets, and pulled out 3 bullets, handing them all over in hopes the extra incentive would get them through. The guard nodded, satisfied, and told them to ‘move it’ before he changed his mind.

 

“The nerve of that guy!” Artyom shouted when they were far enough towards Prospekt Mira that no one would hear them. Pavel didn’t respond, and stayed uncharacteristically quiet. They walked alongside the rails in total silence; even the tunnel seemed to have no voice. When the two of them were first together, there’d have been no end of flirty banter and illustrative anecdotes, but now the stage was empty, and all the players hushed, whispering in anticipation. Artyom felt that ever-familiar pit in his stomach, and tried to occupy his mind with other things. The more important task at hand came to mind first: how to get to Sukharevskaya. The tunnel he’d taken with Bourbon long ago had nearly killed him; it was a fluke he’d survived at all. Had Khan not been around, he may not have. And even if they survived the siren’s call of the tunnel, to go further from Sukharevskaya to Kitai Gorod was a death sentence. This time Artyom had no spiritual guide, no wolf to come to his aide when he was wounded and unable to think. But he thought back to what Khan had told him the first time they’d spoken: ‘ _ I am a wolf… but you, are a wolf pup.’ _ Even so his knees shook at the thought of entering that accursed tunnel, where once he had almost been swallowed up by God knows what. He thought then quite suddenly, with great inspiration,  _ trains must run in two directions… two tunnels _ . And he remembered that parallel to Sukharevskaya’s cursed tunnel was a second, probably equally as cursed tunnel, but that he knew nothing about, and so his entire plan began to hinge on this second tunnel theory. Doubt began to slowly creep over his thoughts however. His brow furrowed as he tried to think. He could swear he remembered Khan giving him some sort of warning about the leftmost tunnel of Prospekt Mira, which lead to Sukharevskaya, but he could not for his own life remember what it was about.

 

“It’s the only way through,” he muttered to himself.

 

“Hm?”

 

Artyom grew embarrassed, realizing he’d spoken aloud (a habit of his), and cleared his throat.

 

“There’s only one way through Prospekt Mira to Sukharevskaya. The other tunnel is too dangerous.”

 

Pavel knew of the rumors of the cursed dry station, how you should never travel through it without a caravan. How it ate up lone wanderers, leaving their relatives seeking answers they will never find, hidden in the dark.

 

Thanks to the silence and well-worn trade route of the tunnel, they arrived at Prospekt Mira in record time. They climbed up onto the platform, and here was such a different scene than at Rizhskaya. Where back home they were closing up shop by now, the nightlife here had just begun. Food stalls still called out specials on cured meat, arms dealers clicked and unclicked their safeties, showing customers how smooth the bolt-action was. Artyom had been here before, and now seen more amazing things, but Pavel, having only now been to VDNKh, had never come this far north in the metro, and the wild things he’d seen had ended in absurdity about where Teatralnaya began. Sure he had more worldly experience than Artyom, but a market of this size was a treat to him, and he began to salivate and look all around like a little kid. Artyom pulled him aside behind a pillar near the rails, and instructed him on where he was going, and what he was going to do. He’d always been so used to being dragged around that giving orders now felt foreign to Artyom. Now  _ he _ was in charge, and had business to attend to. Pavel agreed to his demands and went off to explore and to find a bullet exchange, as they were short on low grade ammo. Artyom sampled some of the fried pork, and refused again the home brew he was inevitably offered, and once again was told to ‘beat it’ when he asked a shady looking corner merchant if he knew where to get some ‘stuff.’ Hansa was as strict as ever, it seemed. He was stopped only once for his passport, before heading to the eastern tunnel to do some recon. He sat on the edge of the platform, legs dangling over the tracks, and from where he sat he could see the easternmost tunnel. It was hard to make out, because unlike every other exit tunnel in the station, this one sat completely dark. No guard post, no fire, no electric lights. The entrance blended in with the darkness around it, and Artyom could only just make out where the cobblestone arch began, and where the marble of the station ended. It didn’t bode well, he thought. He laid on his back and stared in contemplation at the soot-covered ceiling of the station, where once there were great golden facades of kings and battles that Artyom knew nothing about. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took in all the sounds and smells of the market. Grease and butter, ammo jingling in pockets, footsteps heavy on the marble floors, even the gentle breeze flowing in from the tunnel filled Artyom’s head with fantasies of a great old world bazaar, where he could feel the sun on his skin, taste real food on his lips, and welcome the warm breeze. His fantasies were suddenly interrupted when he felt a presence and shadow above him. He opened his eyes and there was Pavel standing over him, with 4 cartridges of standard ammo and a wide grin of success. Artyom stood up and, looking at Pavel, pointed towards the abandoned tunnel.

 

“That’s where we’re going.”

 

Pavel swallowed nervously but silently at the black nothingness, and hopped after Artyom who had already dropped onto the rails and was marching towards the tunnel’s mouth. They came to where the tunnel began and where the high ceilings gave way, and took one more look at civilization behind them. They both knew Sukharevskaya had no permanent residents, and that the tunnel they were about to explore was completely abandoned. If they weren’t careful, this could be the last time either of them would see the lights of a populated station again.

 

At first the tunnel seemed normal. It was quiet, in the metaphysical sense, and every so often the familiar squeaking of rats would remind the two young men that they weren’t alone. Artyom had always remembered, ‘ _ Do not fear the rats. If there are no rats, no life at all, it’s then you should be worried. _ ’ And so they continued step after step along their way for another few minutes. And then 20 minutes. A half an hour. Artyom kept looking at his watch as though something had broken but time kept steadily ticking on at its usual pace. But something was wrong. They’d been walking for over an hour now, and Artyom was starting to panic. When was the last time he’d seen a rat? Was Pavel always this quiet? Was the oppressive silence of the tunnel always this  _ loud _ ? And then he saw his flashlight begin to weaken in the dark, and not because of dying batteries but because the darkness had become so supernaturally thick that it swallowed the light completely. He checked his watch again and in what felt like seconds another 10 minutes went by of nothing but silent walking. He turned his flashlight to Pavel, who looked over at him questioningly, as if he wasn’t feeling any of the stress that Artyom was.

 

“Have we been in this tunnel for a strangely long time, Pavel? Sh-shouldn’t we be there by now?” His voice quivered.

 

Pavel then began to take notice of it too.

 

“Yeah I… I think we have. Did we take a transfer turn we didn’t see…”?

 

Artyom didn’t answer, but turned his flashlight back in front of him, where it continued to disappear into the dark before it could illuminate the walls.

 

“Do you see this?! Artyom! Look, look!” Pavel cried.

 

Artyom whipped back around and aimed his flashlight right at Pavel’s face. His eyes were closed, and his hands were out in front of him as though he was trying not to walk into a wall.

 

“Pavel?” Artyom worriedly called.

 

“It’s  _ amazing _ it’s— I, I think it’s the sky! Artyom do you see this?” He continued forward in the dark, with his eyes closed and his gun down.

 

Artyom remembered when he first saw the tunnels’ visions of the world above; the flighty memories of the deceased, echoing through the underground. Artyom then, with great fear in his heart and without thinking, began to jog, and then to run at a pretty decent pace. At first he heard nothing behind him, and then Pavel chasing after him with calls of concern. But he had this feeling in his gut that he had to run. He stopped only for a moment to shout back at Pavel, who was also running now.

 

“Don’t you feel that?!” he shouted, sweat dripping into his eyes. He turned back around and continued to run away from Pavel, who had just caught up, and was no longer entranced. Something was welling up in his stomach and in the back of his mind that kept him from slowing down; nothing could stop him from running he felt, and his legs moved on their own against his will. But as this dread filled Artyom, so too did the atmosphere of the tunnel begin to swell. Pavel kept pace well, he was fit, but he never quite caught Artyom. He flashed his own flashlight at the back of Artyom’s head and shouted again before he disappeared behind a blind turn in the tunnel. Artyom could feel his entire body becoming overwhelmingly hot with fatigue, and he thought for a moment he might be able to stop running, to catch his breath. And then, before he could come to a halt, he felt himself falling.


	4. The Chapel

“I’ve gone to hell.” Artyom enunciated out loud, but to himself.

 

He could feel an oppressive heat under his clothes, under his skin. It was so hot, he could barely breathe. The air around him was thick and wet, and slid uneasily down his throat, flooding his lungs and causing him great pain. His thoughts drifted unexpectedly calmly, to their usual resting place: the consistent, swirling guilt that lived in the back of his mind, and constantly reminded him of the fate of the dark ones. He lay himself on the floor, slumping to his side and letting his head rest on the boiling concrete. A thousand lives or more, extinguished in seconds. Ashes of ashes, burning and charred, strewn across a desolate, marred wasteland of mutated plant life and melting bodies. The scene of the spreading fire, and the feelings of anguish and betrayal, replayed themselves endlessly just behind his eyes, so that he may never forget what he’d done. 

 

“I can’t die… I haven’t… I haven’t made right…!” He cried pitifully.

 

How could he even begin to think about atoning for his sins, to think he may be worthy of forgiveness or mercy? It ate at him ravenously, and he felt the biting of his conscience against his insides as a dulled knife through the stomach, never pulling out, never giving him repose. The heat wasn’t helping. It was so dark here, why was it so hot? He could smell then, the sweet, rotten stench of decay. It boiled up from below him, from below the floor, until it was carried up by the thick and slimy air in giant, invisible bubbles. The combination nearly made him throw up, and his eyes began to burn, and so he shut them and covered his mouth, coughing and trying just to stay alive. If he was alive…

 

He woke up on his back and, seeing nothing in front of him but darkness, turned on his flashlight. He tried to stand when a sharp ache struck him in his chest; he must have bruised a rib he thought, when he fell. He lay there and pointed the flashlight straight up. A long, vertical abyss above him swallowed the light, and he saw no end to it. Struggling, and with great pain, he sat himself up properly and rose to his feet. Just as he thought he’d caught his footing, the ground underneath him suddenly gave way, and he found one leg sinking into it, though only slightly. He forcefully pulled his leg out, and fell backwards, landing on his ass. Shining the flashlight towards the ground in front of him, he saw why it had been so uneven: he lay atop a pile of bodies. They varied in decay, some dry skeletons years old, others fresh and stinking of rot, dried blood covering their faces in a horrifying visage. Artyom covered his mouth in disgust, and turned to run away. Ignoring the pain in his chest, he ran as fast as he could into a tunnel to the north. After 300 meters, and finding himself completely alone, he did his best to put the terrible image out of his head and tried to come to some conclusion on where he was, and what had happened. He sat on the rails and dug out the map from his bag. Shining his flashlight directly on it, his hands shook as he scanned for Sukharevskaya. That’s when he remembered then, what Khan had told him about the second tunnel:

 

“ _ We throw our dead into the abyss there, broken between two ends of the tunnel. _ ”

 

That certainly explained the bodies, but left Artyom even more confused on his whereabouts. He smacked his forehead with the butt of his hand in shame. How could he have so foolishly forgotten about this terrible obstacle? He had gotten himself completely lost! And, he quickly realized as well, Pavel was nowhere to be seen. He stared down the map again, trying to deduce which tunnel he may have fallen into. He traced his finger from Prospekt Mira to Sukharevskaya. Half way through the tunnel, his finger ran over a small black arch, turning left from Sukharevskaya towards trubnaya. His finger pulled away with a stain, as though the mark were just written with fresh ink.  _ How bizarre… _ but no time to think about it now. He pocketed the map, stood up and, defying every logical thought, headed south back towards the sea of corpses. He trembled as his light scanned the grisly scene and, finding nothing of use or interest, he turned his attention back to the tunnels north of him. To his left, the tunnel he had run through in a panic. To his right, a maintenance tunnel that couldn’t fit a full-size train car, but could manage security trolleys and other small rail vehicles. The maintenance tunnel was bound to be shorter, and probably led to an entrance to a station he figured, and so Artyom began to walk with his hands on his bag straps into the dark of the side tunnel.

 

He walked for a few minutes down the maintenance shaft, for once happy to hear nothing but the scurrying and squeaking of rats under foot, when he came suddenly to the end of the tunnel, bricked up on one end completely by its builders, long before Artyom’s time. At first he was upset he had walked all this way for nothing, when he eyed a door recessed in the right wall. He cautiously opened it, and peered in; it was completely dark, and looked like a long hallway instead of a room. A breeze blew through the open door, as if it hadn’t been open in a long time, and a ghastly pressure had built up somewhere deep inside. Artyom steadied his Kalashnikov and unclicked the safety, keeping it at the ready as he slowly worked his way inside. The hallway was indeed long, and winding with many sharp corners. It was paved with linoleum, and Artyom’s boots squeaked as he walked, dashing his hopes for stealth. He watched each wall religiously, taking a minute at a time to peer around corners, the fear in his gut was so strong. Finally, the hallway gave way to a large office space. Desks with long-dead computers lined the walls and center, but everything seemed to be pristine, untouched. If it weren’t for the thick layer of dust over everything, Artyom might’ve thought it was set up only yesterday, and that the war had never touched it. Still, he moved cautiously, turning around and waving his light over every dark space as he went, his flashlight glinting off the screens. The room was L-shaped, and as Artyom rounded the corner, facing backwards as if to catch someone from behind, his back hit something in the middle of the room. He jumped and squeaked out some pathetic noise, throwing himself around and aiming his gun, ready to fire.

 

“Artyom!” It was Pavel, who was just as shocked to see him as he was. Artyom lowered his weapon and leaned over to catch his breath. He hadn’t been so startled in all his life!

 

“Artyom what is this place? I came here from another tunnel but both ends were plugged up! Where are we?” Pavel asked, scratching his head.

 

“I don’t know… you say both ends of where you came from are plugged up?” He thought to himself now that the only way forward was back through the first tunnel he’d run into. “And what is this place? Don’t ask me, I’m as lost as you are,” it pained him to admit, but it was true. 

 

Artyom filled Pavel in on what he’d seen after his fall as they walked from the maintenance tunnel, back towards their destination. He learned Pavel had also suddenly fallen, losing his footing in the dark, and ended up in another tunnel completely. As they rounded the corner of the exit, and turned into the tunnel, Artyom shuffled by quickly, trying not to think about what was at the opposite end. He hadn’t told Pavel about that detail. They’d stayed quiet after their brief chat, walking diligently through the dark, and Pavel felt it was a good time to break the silence.

 

“So uh, Artyomich…?”

 

Artyom gave him a noncommital ‘ _ Hm? _ ’ and little else, not even looking back towards him.

 

“Well it’s just… we’re heading west now, no? My compass says so, and, well. That direction is Trubnaya, of course, but from there to Polis… would we not have to meet with the Reich?” He trailed off, nervously.

 

Artyom stopped then suddenly. What an idiot he had been! He may not know where this tunnel lead, but Pavel was absolutely right that in this direction was only Reich territory and bandits. There was little hope they would end up somewhere civilized any time soon, following this trajectory. He once again pulled out his map, and this time he and Pavel huddled around it, studying it together. Pavel frowned, and pointed right at the same mark Artyom had noticed before. 

 

“What is this? Your own writing?” he questioned.

 

Artyom was going to explain when he saw it was longer than he’d remembered, and now arced sharply to the left, longer than it had been originally.

 

“What on earth…” he muttered to himself.

 

Pondering it until it made his head hurt, he returned his attention to the fact that they were lost, and looked at the surrounding stations once more. The black mark that now stretched left was covering Trubnaya completely, so that at first he had trouble reading its name.

 

“I… I think we need to just keep walking. I don’t know I— I just… have a feeling.” He turned to Pavel and repeated the bit about having a feeling under his breath. Pavel pouted a bit, not entirely happy with the plan of ‘Just keep walking,’ but agreed it was all they had for the time being.

 

They marched along in silence for another 10 minutes, when Pavel’s face suddenly scrunched into a scowl.

 

“You know it was one of your  _ feelings _ that ran us both right into a hole,” he spat.

 

Artyom whipped around:

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I’m just saying, we don’t have any idea where we are! And you were so  _ eager _ to get to Sukharevskaya, that—”

 

“I know!” Artyom snapped in retaliation. “I know.” He let his head hang, and they stood there in the dark. Pavel spoke up again first.

 

“I’m sorry, I—… I don’t know what came over me.” He held his head with one hand like he had a headache. “I think… I think we should get out of this tunnel, is what I think.”

 

“Oh you do? Genius!” Artyom rolled his eyes and felt a fire light in his belly. “Is that really what you think? Why hadn’t  _ I  _ thought of that, huh?!” He began to yell. His hands were balled up in frustrated fists now.

 

“Artyom, I think the tunnel is—  I think you’re not well—” 

 

“Oh I’m not well!? So now not only am I useless, I’m sick too?” He was spitting as he spoke.

 

“I— I never said you were useless! Artyom look, we—”

 

“Don’t tell me what to do! Who’s this  _ we _ shit anyway?”

 

Artyom felt tears welling up in his eyes, and his fingernails dug into his palms so strongly he nearly drew blood. The wavering flame in his belly was growing so fast, and he just  _ felt _ so strongly— felt everything! Colors began to flash before his eyes, and he could no longer see Pavel clearly through the kaleidoscope visions. All he knew was he was furious; he was going to burst if he kept it in any longer, and he shut his eyes but the colors followed him and stayed behind his eyelids. Then, he suddenly felt himself hoisted over Pavel’s shoulder, who had begun to carry him further into the tunnel. Artyom blindly beat Pavel’s back with his fists, and kicked like a child, but Pavel’s grip was firm and his back strong, and he continued on despite Artyom’s tantrum.

 

Just as quickly as Artyom had felt all his frustrations welling up, he felt them flood away, down the river and out of his thoughts. Pavel continued to carry him firefighter-style, until he coughed an embarrassed  _ ahem _ and Pavel put him down. He was ashamed of his actions, and still frustrated by his feelings of inadequacy, but apologized sincerely and hoped Pavel wouldn’t make a big deal out of it.

 

“I think… I think that tunnel was getting to you, Artyomich. I don’t… I don’t know if I believe in the occult and all that, but… the voice of that tunnel made me wonder, eh?” Pavel’s admission sent a shiver down both of their spines. 

 

Artyom noticed then that they had stopped not because he was well again, but because they had come to some strange, and ancient… platform? Artyom blinked in confusion as he shined his light around. It was the end of the tunnel, but instead of a sprawling station for a train to empty out into, there was a flat marble floor, and a series of escalators. That was it; just 5 meters of marble flooring, and the ascending escalators, as if a train would stop, empty out of its face, and passengers would go directly from the car to the surface. He had never seen anything like this before, and highly doubted its usefulness. They climbed up onto the platform, and looked up the escalators; dark, cobwebby. Abandoned. They nodded at each other and began their ascent, slowly and cautiously. The steps creaked and groaned beneath them, but otherwise stood solid. After a minute of climbing, Artyom began to hear laughter. Pavel heard it too, and they both began to charge up the steps. The laughter grew louder, and from over the top of the steps Artyom could see a warm light filtering in. They reached the top of the escalator and both stood awestruck: before them lay the interior of an enormous chapel, complete with stained glass facades, and wooden pews. Candles were lit across every row, and a great chandelier overhead lit the rest of the space in a fashion Artyom had only dreamed of. Candlelight glitzed against the glass and made the scenes come alive; Artyom recognized one or two of the more famous ones: Mary and Joseph, the baby Christ himself, and one of the apostles, who not knowing very well, Artyom assumed was Paul. Pavel began to walk around the outside edge of the cathedral to the right, and Artyom took the left. There was a sense of calm here and Artyom, feeling its hazy warmth, lowered his weapon and began to study the architecture and the art. He was educated as a child on the arts, and on gothic architecture particularly because of its presence in western European cathedrals, which his books were about. He didn’t remember much of the specifics, but knew this sort of building was not only out of place deep underground, but in Moscow above as well. He sat himself in a satin-lined pew at the back, and took in the scenery. Outside of his adventure to the Lenin Library, this was the most…  _ living _ , he felt, of the old-world places he’d seen. It was as though it had existed outside of time, unaffected by the war above, or the world around it below. But then he remembered, they had heard laughter. Unnerved, Artyom quickly stood and readied his weapon again, walking out into the center aisle towards the pulpit. Pavel was there already, rummaging through the lectern which, to his surprise, was stacked with completely untouched bibles. A book in this condition was unheard of in the metro— it was like they were brand new. Artyom remembered having heard of a printing press at Pushkinskaya, and nervously took out the map again— had he really taken them that far west without noticing? Were they in for a run in with the Reich? Once again to his amazement and frustration, the map had a new mark. A neat, thinly penned circle, with a holy cross in the center, right at the end of the original black trail it had made. Artyom’s heart stopped, beginning to understand what this meant. He dropped it on the lectern in an accidental panic, startling Pavel.

 

“I think it’s a  _ Guide _ !”

 

“A guide? It’s a map of course it’s a guide!”

 

“No no, a  _ Guide _ , capital G!”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Artyom aimed his flashlight directly on the map and motioned Pavel over to it, placing a finger heavily on the newest symbol.

 

“A….” he hesitated but couldn’t think of any better word, “magic map, basically. It— it warns you,  _ guides _ you, speaks to you even....” He winced as he looked at Pavel, expecting the worst at such an explanation.

 

“A  _ magic _ map? You’re shitting me?” he looked genuinely offended, like Artyom was playing some rude trick on him, calling him stupid.

 

“No, I—! A wise man… once told me that. I had one once, but I couldn’t use it, couldn’t hear it. Didn’t believe in it…” he drifted off for a moment, remembering the hungry fire in Khan’s eyes when he had seen that original Guide. How he’d used it to get them safely through one of the deadliest tunnels in the eastern metro, and how he himself, Artyom, had been ready to toss it away, to say ‘I already have one.’ How foolish he had been, he thought. “But after seeing this, I… I don’t know what to believe. But it’s my only explanation.”

 

“After seeing  _ what _ ?” Pavel struggled to understand.

 

“I didn’t write these marks— the map did. I mean, they just… appeared. I think it’s mapping our journey, but… they’re not lining up with any familiar tunnels… I don’t know, it’s just a theory. But, if I’m right, as far as I can tell, we’re here,” and he pointed again to the circumscribed cross. 

 

Pavel looked sternly at Artyom and the Guide, back and forth between the two. Artyom knew immediately what he was thinking; as a soldier of the Red Line, as a ‘Good Communist,’ he was taught to be completely atheist, and unfeeling for the supernatural. But he could tell too, could see it in his face, that Pavel was starting to struggle with that ideology.

 

“Alright! Alright. Magic maps… ptooey…” he shook his head. “But…” and suddenly the mood became very somber. “I know we heard laughter…” and the two of them came close together, back to back with guns at the ready.

 

Artyom heard it first, the gentle, rhythmic tapping of footsteps on concrete. It drew closer, and louder, echoing throughout the high-ceilings of the cathedral, when then the double doors at the front of the space slowly creaked open.

 

"Hello, children!" came a thundering voice as the doors flung wide open, revealing a haggard older gentleman, and an entire procession of well-dressed church goers. They were dressed so beautifully, Artyom examined. The women all wore long, flowing gowns, and the men were done up proper too. The oddest thing, was that they all looked as particularly unmarred by the apocalypse as the church did. No stains, no grunge, no smell of must and mold. Their faces were clean, and bright, their fingernails all cut short and groomed. Artyom, not knowing what to expect, felt rather embarrassed at his own, filthy condition. All these people and the old man, whom Artyom assumed must be their leader, poured into the room and surrounded the two travelers at the pulpit, chattering amongst themselves, some wary of the travelers, some curious.

 

"Hello children," the old man repeated, "what brings you here, to our humble home under the roof of the House of God?"

 

Artyom and Pavel stared in silent awe at the crowd before them. Artyom himself had a hundred questions of course, about who these people were, how they'd gotten here, where  _ here _ was, exactly, but he put it all aside in order to make a good first impression. He had dealt with religious groups underground before; Jehovah's Witnesses, the Worm Cult...he shuddered at the memory of that one.

 

"We… came up from the escalator. We're lost, you see."

 

The leader of the strange bunch looked quizzically at him, not understanding, and the crowd buzzed.

 

"I'm sorry young man you're going to have to run that by me again. Escalator? From where?"

 

Artyom was getting frustrated and tried to reiterate.

 

"The escalator at the back of this church," He turned and pointed to where they had come from, but now all that stood there was wall and tapestry. He could feel his own breath cut short and his stomach seize, as he turned back to the equally as frustrated old man. Before anyone could continue, a frightened shriek came from the back of the crowd:

 

"Demons!" the voice rang out, and suddenly the whole crowd grew loud with chattered, panicked agreement. The two claimed to come from nowhere, and now the crowd had begun to notice, dressed very strangely for guests in a house of God. Of course, had become the sentiment, they were demons.

 

Artyom began to desperately bargain with their leader, tried pointlessly to explain that they truly were lost, and wished no one any harm. But he was unshakeable at the beck and call of his flock, and so quickly Artyom almost didn't see it, a knife revealed itself under the old man's sleeve, and he swept at Artyom with intent to kill.

 

"Demons!" they cried again in horrifying unison, cheering on the old man.

 

Pavel, catching Artyom as he fell back, took action and aimed the sights of his Kalashnikov right at their leader and called out:

 

"Nobody move! No more of this!"

 

But his threat fell on deaf ears, and the group continued to slowly creep towards them from all sides, and Pavel's hands began to shake as his confidence wavered.

 

_ CRACK! _

 

The single shot of the kalash rang throughout the room, and Pavel opened his eyes to see if he'd actually hit anyone. A wispy, smoking hole sat in the center of the old man's chest, but quickly closed up like water in a clogged drain, and the group continued forward. Seeing this Artyom froze, and immediately found himself back at the 300th meter of VDNKh, waiting for the dark ones to linger through. Their black, void bodies would march forward, eating up lead without bleeding or slowing. Pavel didn't have the same problem and fired off more rounds into the crowd; all of them moved forward, completely unaffected and uncaring, their bodies twisting and morphing like smoke around the bullets.

 

"Run!" Pavel finally gave in, and grabbed Artyom's wrist, pulling him along as he tore through the crowd, desperately pushing them away and barreling through bodies until he could see the open doors of freedom at the end of the aisle. The both of them felt they'd never run so fast in their lives as they barreled through the doors, slamming them shut and finding themselves once again in the dark. They listened intently through the door for a moment or two, but couldn't hear the mob pursuing. They'd given up the chase rather quickly… The pair then turned their flashlights on and looked around the space they were now in; it was dark and concrete, with low ceilings like the maintenance rooms and locker rooms of the rest of the metro. The ornate wooden doors behind them looked out of place against the drab grey walls.

 

"What was that?!" Pavel nearly shouted.

 

Artyom sat in silence for a moment, contemplating what had just happened. Foremost, he felt useless again, like he'd taken no action whatsoever to get them out of there. To be fair, he hadn't. The images of the dark ones creeping back into his mind had frozen him in place.

 

"I… I don't know..." and that was the truth.


End file.
